


pink spots on a gray field

by ghostwit



Series: extremities [1]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Character Study, Dissociation, Gen, I didn't really get out what I wanted to here but. I'll try again., Law's a dramatic bitch but he also has like... issues with audience and shit., Mild Gore, Not like. Hm. I dunno. It's weird., Self-Harm, Sorry Lawww. He's just easy bait lol., Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 15:31:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21322489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwit/pseuds/ghostwit
Summary: (Law dissects himself in a desperate attempt to get the bad out.)
Series: extremities [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1615180
Comments: 7
Kudos: 19





	pink spots on a gray field

The engine room is unbearably stuffy, hot, tepid air and the grating hum of machinery driving off the majority of the crew of twenty-one with the exception of engineering emergencies. Nothing about it brings Law peace. He lays his hand flat against a piece of metal, index and forefinger framing a tight bolt before reflexively drawing it back when the heat broaches the flat of his palm, pain chasing the withdrawing arm as his shoulder jerks just hard enough to remind him that  _ he does not deserve this arm. _ This body, maybe. The noise is unbearable, makes him puff out breath into the stale air as if it’s being punched out of him, one-two, one-two, a boxer’s strike to the solar plexus. The handle of the scalpel makes an indent in his palm, skin paper white around the pressure. 

“Room.” 

He can’t hear his own voice over the din of the room, and his eyes water. There’s a new quality to the air now, dreamlike, cast-over, the ears of a drunkard. He tries, desperately, to bend the sound, skew it, control it, but the metallic whine is invasive, makes him twitch as he leans to kneel on the floor of the sub. He will never hear quiet again. 

The doctor splays his palm over the floor. He raises the scalpel. He brings it down.

(His jaw is quivering with unspoken words.  _ What are you here for? Why am I doing this? _ )

His index and pointer fingers come free in perfect little arcs, the bisection clean, and he watches them twitch as they begin to drift from his hand. He uses his other hand to lift the fingers, sucks them into his mouth by the root, cringing at the feeling from both ends. It reminds him of the soft jut of hay from the mouth of a farmer, the way they hang loosely in his mouth, but their weight and size begin to remind him of a certain Marine captain, and it makes him laugh so hard they drop. His head snaps down, expecting a surge of pain and a wet  _ plop  _ as they make contact with the floor of the sub, but they simply drift in the altered gravity of the Room. A globe of saliva floats past, and he turns to keep from vomiting, snaps the fingers back into his hand with a shuffle that is entirely too loud. He digs his nails into his arm, splits the skin and peels it back into messy ridges so he can see the clean layers of skin and fat and muscle, a textbook diagram come to life. He keeps prying, his vision cloudy and hot from tears,  _ it’s just pain, it’s just pain _ .

He clasps his hand, prayer, fingers netting tight until his knuckles darken and the blood rushes to his fingertips, albicant around the nail bed. He sits on his knees like this, focused on the feeling of the tears up his arm coming together again, cutting him out from his own innards. He wants his hands back in his mouth, but the thought makes his gut spasm and he coughs over his own joined hands, thighs quivering with the strain of keeping him upright as his core rocks. He thinks not of where the posture comes from, the need to keep himself turned skywards, to splay his image out in the model of piety and devotion, avoids the thought of when this was trained into him. 

He doesn’t know when the scalpel came out again, only feels the way his arm wrenches itself at the elbow, enough twist in the shallow motions to get him screaming. He can feel Kikoku’s gaze on him as his hands shake, mocking and cruel, the blade small and unimpressive in the dark swell of his hand in the shadow of the room. He appreciates the audience. He abhors the audience. His eyes are dry and his throat is sore. He will not find what he is looking for, blood abstemious as it remains fast in the crook of his arm when it’s wrenched away, jagged cuts of dark sinew, pulsing with his heart, white fat lining the edges in thin reserve. Law feels hungry. 

He wakes alone--No one goes in here, he knows that, why should he hope for otherwise? He curses his self-sabotage.--with no evidence of his lapse apart from the ochroleucous arcs of healing scars on dark skin. Nothing noticeable. 

**Author's Note:**

> LOL. I was tired of looking at this. Not super proud of this but at least I wrote something, lol.  
Leave me a comment or something if yer up to it. 
> 
> hazeism.tumblr.com


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